In The End
by lumaluma
Summary: Three summers. Three wars. Three snapshots of France and England's lives, as well as the changes they go through over the years. FrUk.
1. Chapter 1

_Hello everyone, _

_Despite how long I've been writing for Hetalia, and how devoted a fan of this pairing I am, this is the first time I've ever written a story for these two. It's not going to be this angsty all the way through, by the way, I was just in that sort of mood when I wrote it._

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Summer, 1783.

He felt a slight stab of guilt in his gut when he saw what it had done to his rival, but he couldn't show any remorse. Not yet, at least. This was revenge, after all, a dish best served cold, and under a dark, moonless sky. They were on a hill out in the countryside, far away from either of their homes. Despite the fact that it was summer, the wind blew cold enough to make France shiver. Unless that was just the shame he felt from looking into England's eyes and seeing the anger, the despair, the resentment that brooded in their depths.

When England spoke, his voice was quiet but cut through the air like the knife he had pulled on France minutes earlier, only to have it knocked from his hand, his grasp weakened by anger. "How _could_ you."

It wasn't even a question, just a short, harsh stab straight into France's conscience. He tried not to let it show, instead tossing his hair over his shoulder and shrugging carelessly. "It had to be done. You knew you would have to let him go someday."

"He wasn't ready yet. He still isn't ready. And _you_ didn't have to help him do it!" England's eyes narrowed, and France could feel the rage in his gaze.

He smirked in an attempt to hide how he really felt. He was a bit ashamed at what had happened, especially now that he saw what it had done to England, but he had to stay strong about this. "Oh, but I did. You have to feel the pain I felt, and this is the only way you'll ever feel it."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You take something precious from me, I take something precious from you. It's retribution as we've always done it, _mon cher_."

"Don't call me that, you… you… pathetic excuse for a nation!"

France shook his head slowly. "No, you don't understand me at all, England. You remember how you took my Canada away? How you snatched him up like the selfish bastard you are? _That's _why I helped America."

England, who had looked like he was about to throw himself at France and strangle him, froze. "What do you mean…?" he breathed.

"This is just a fair case of revenge." France laughed cynically. "Even then, it isn't fair. You practically dragged Canada away, forced him to go with you, and all I did was help a willing nation gain his independence from an oppressive leader. He wanted an ally, and I supported him."

"Because you hate me and can't stand to see me happy, is that it?"

"No, because it was going to happen eventually, and there's no time like the present."

"Liar."

England's remark stung, but France lifted up his chin defiantly and glared down his nose at the other nation. "I don't wish to bring you unhappiness, but if you hurt me, I will _not_ lay back and let you step on me."

"What, did losing your 'precious Canada' break your heart? Were you in love with the boy?"

"No more than you were in love with America. He was my little brother. I wanted to see him grow up and become a successful nation. But not only did you take that from me, now you hardly pay him any attention!"

England shook his head. "I don't want to hear it. America was just going through a rebellious adolescent phase, and you helped throw him out into the cold, cruel world all on his own. At least I'm still protecting Canada!"

"You refuse to let me see him under any circumstances. You know he wants to talk to me, and you won't let him. How is that protection?"

"I'm protecting him from you, you idiot! He's my charge now, and I'm going to keep him safe."

"From the only person who cares enough about him to write to him? To reply to the letters he sends from that cabin in the dead of winter when no one's there to talk to him? That's hardly protection, England. You're treating him like a prisoner. That's why America wanted to break away from you in the first place."

"What are you saying?"

"That you're trying to control your colonies too much. They're capable of making decisions for themselves, you know!"

England shook his head, putting his hands over his ears. "I don't want to hear it!"

"You _have_ to hear it." France stepped forward, pulling England's hands away from his ears. "It's the only way you'll learn. I'm not evil, England, and I don't hate you. But you have to learn from your mistakes."

England laughed bitterly. "You don't hate me? _That's_ a good one."

"I don't. I know it may seem like it sometimes, but I don't. You are far too much like myself for me to hate you, so I pity you."

England narrowed his eyes. "Well, you must have a strange definition of pity. Last I checked, 'pity' isn't dragging someone to the edge of despair and happily shoving them over it!" He tried to wrench his hands out of France's grasp, but the Frenchman held them tightly.

"No, but pity is being there to help them back up. Pity is recognizing that you've hurt someone, that you've done them wrong, and wanting to fix it. Wanting to take away the pain. Pity is going and meeting someone who you know wants to tear you apart, and having the courage to stand in front of them."

"What are you getting at?"

"Don't you see? I'm sorry I hurt you, but it had to be done. I pity you. You don't pity me. In fact, if anyone here hates anyone else, then you hate me."

"Maybe I do," England spat, yanking his wrists away from France. "And I have good reason to. You've caused me nothing but pain and suffering for centuries. You've always tormented me, no matter what!"

"Ah, but haven't I always been there to help you pull yourself together again?"

"Yes, because you're a strange, twisted bastard!"

France shook his head, a small smile on his face. "No, that's not true at all. It's because seeing you struggle with difficulties that I've brought upon you hurts me, England."

England stepped back, turning his head away. "You're lying."

"I wish that was the case." France murmured, not exactly sure what he meant by it.

"What, are you saying that everything you've done to me is out of some secret affection you've been harbouring over the years?"

Well, that hit the nail on the head, even if it wasn't the nail he expected. "I…" France started, mouth hanging open a bit. He put a hand over his mouth suddenly, casting his eyes down at the ground.

He had never really stopped to think of it before, but whenever he was around England, he felt this strange sense of urgency, that something needed to be done. He had been mistaking that as a sign to act hostile towards his rival, but now… could it have been something else all along? He, the nation of love, hadn't realized after all this time what exactly that feeling was. Was that why he always felt so hurt when England struck him down? Was that why, no matter what happened, he always found some excuse to be around him again?

England was staring at him, one eyebrow quirked, and France felt pressed to answer him. "…and what if it is?"

England laughed for a moment. "Don't pull the 'love-struck fool' excuse with me, I'm not some idiotic girl who'll swoon before you." When France didn't reply, he tilted his head. "Wait… you're being serious?"

"Would it matter if I was? You hate me, after all." France turned away, suddenly bitter. "I'm going home. We're done here. There's nothing more to say, nothing more to do."

"Hold it right there! Who said we're done here?" England grabbed his arm.

France didn't want to deal with these odd feelings at the time, still a little confused by what was going through his head, so he tried to shake England off. "I did. Now please let go of me, I have better things to do than stand here talking to you all night."

"France! You listen to me, right now!"

He glanced over his shoulder lazily. "What do you want now? To yell at me some more? To blame me for all the bad choices you've made?"

"No, I-"

"Well, whatever you have to say, I don't care to hear it."

"Just… _listen_ for once in your life, will you?" England didn't sound so angry anymore, so France turned around, more curious than anything. He raised an eyebrow at England, who suddenly let go of his arm like it was red-hot. The Englishman crossed his arms over his chest. "I'm not going to pretend that we're friends, let alone that we get along, but I want you to talk to me."

"What, suddenly you care about how I feel? I'm flattered. Who would've known that all it took to get bitter little England to loosen up was a simple love confession."

"Oh, so now it's a love confession?!"

"That's what I said, weren't you listening?"

"Of course I was, don't be daft." England brushed the hair out of his eyes, glaring at France. "It's just all rather sudden, and I find it hard to believe that the self-professed 'country of love' would be so cruel to the person he now claims to love."

France bit his lip. He breathed in deeply, then exhaled in a long, slow sigh. "That's because I know you can't stand me. You don't think it hurts at all, having the person you've fallen for continuously trying to find an excuse to go to war with you? You don't think it hurts me to hurt you? Well, it does. But you know what's even worse? When you intentionally cause me pain, just because you get some kick out of it._ That's_ why I was so angry you took Canada. _That's _why I helped America. So you could feel the pain I feel every day of my life, only less so."

"Less?"

"That's what I said. Less. If you think what you're going through right now is bad, then take a step back. Imagine what I have to go through."

England pushed him away. "Don't be so full of yourself. Stop wallowing in that self-pity, it's disgusting."

France's eyes narrowed. "I see. You think I'm feeling sorry for myself. Well, I'm not."

"Oh really? Enlighten me, why don't you?"

"I'm feeling sorry for you, you heartless creature. Look at you, you're perfectly whole, even after losing America. Did you even care about him, or is losing him only the loss of resources and wealth instead of—ugh!"

England's fist connected with his stomach. The Englishman's eyes were slits of poisonous green. "Don't you _ever_ say something like that again. You know damn well I loved that boy as a brother. I'm not heartless either." He was breathing heavily, angrily, but his eyes filled with tears. "It's true that I didn't want to let him go, and it's true that I'll miss him, but… I'll have to cope. And I don't need you trying to comfort me."

France nodded. "Very well. But if you ever need someone to talk to, remember that I know what you're going through." He turned away. "And I'm trying to not hold it against you, by the way."

"Pardon?"

"That you took Canada from me. Perhaps it was for the best after all."

"What do you mean?"

"My people have been growing restless. I can tell that something is coming… _une r__é__volution, je crois…_"

"A revolution?"

"Yes." He glanced over his shoulder to see England furrow his eyebrows. "What's wrong?"

"That's… well, I hope you'll be all right, that's all." England shook his head. "It's tough to make it through those times. I would know. So… be careful. Stay safe." He was suddenly calm, and seemed almost worried for France.

France smiled to himself. Now _this_ was the England he had always loved. The man who would express concern for him without meaning to, the man who would look bashfully down at the ground as he spoke.

"I love you."

The words slipped out when he didn't mean to let them, but England just nodded and blushed a little. "I know."

France decided it was time to go, leaving England standing there on that hill. He heard a ghost of a whisper, something he knew he wasn't supposed to hear. England sighed, murmuring, "And despite it all, sometimes I can't tell if I hate you or love you_._" He didn't look back, though, just smiling a bit as he left.

Yes, he would cause England great pain, and England would do the same to him, but in the end they both knew the truth: it was out of resentment for how they felt towards each other. But maybe someday they would be able to look each other in the eye without pretenses of hate or anger, and finally learn to accept each other. In the end, things would have to change. The only question was, when would that time come?

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_This going to be a three chapter sequence, just showing moments from France and England's lives. The rather high rating suggests what will come in the future, by the way, so let that be a warning for future chapters. Thank you for reading, and I appreciate feedback of any kind (criticism or compliments)._

_Translations: mon cher – my dear. Une r__é__volution, je crois – a revolution, je crois – a revolution, I believe._

_I hope to be updating soon. Drop a review, if you like, let me know what you think! Again, thanks for reading._


	2. Chapter 2

_Just a quick heads-up, there is a rather mature scene in this chapter. If you're not one for those kinds of things, I'd skip over it._

_Thank you!_

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Summer, 1815.

"Well, look at that. Your so-called 'invincible' emperor has been defeated, again! What do you have to say to _that_, eh?" England smiled mockingly, his hands on his hips and a cocky, self-satisfied air about him.

France spat a mouthful of blood and saliva at England. "Go to hell." He hadn't wanted to surrender, of course, but that was better than losing all of his men. They had all retreated, and France was left in the battlefield alone with England and his army, his weapons all thrown on the ground after England hit him in the jaw with a rifle butt.

France ran his tongue over his teeth. Nothing loose or broken, but he had a nasty gash on the inside of his cheek from where he had bitten it. He glared at England. "Striking me like that was completely unnecessary, and you know it."

"Let me have my fun. Now come along, France, you're going to be our prisoner until we figure out what to do with Napoleon." England beckoned a soldier. "Here, take away his weapons. He'll be staying with me."

"But sir, won't he try to escape?"

"Oh, certainly not. He knows better than that by now."

England and his men weren't staying in the nearby town of Waterloo, surprisingly enough. No, they were staying in tents just outside the battlefield, and France followed England to his tent, glaring at the Englishman's back the entire way.

England glanced over his shoulder and smiled, a jeering, victorious grin. "Be glad I'm letting you stay with me, frog. The prisoner's quarters are positively miserable, and I'm not cruel enough to make you stay there."

"Your generosity warms my heart," France said flatly, crossing his arms and glaring at England.

"Hey now, be grateful. I can always change my mind."

"But we both know you won't, don't we?"

"That's debatable. I'm letting you have a bed here, by the way."

"But I can't leave."

"No, of course not. You're a prisoner, after all." England shrugged and held open the flap to his tent. "After you."

It wasn't particularly lavishly decorated or furnished, but France had to admit that England's tent was quite serviceable. He had a bed in one corner, and a small table with maps set up on it in another, a chair beside it. No tapestries or anything like France's tent had, but then again, England had never had the same taste for opulence as him.

As soon as he was inside, France sat on the bed and glared at England. "I am _not_ sharing a bed with you."

"Of course not, don't be ridiculous. I'll have them bring you one, don't you worry." England rolled his eyes. He took off his uniform coat and set it on the back of the chair. He raised an eyebrow at France, who shook his head.

"I'm keeping mine on, thank you very much."

"Fine, suit yourself. Someone's being rather cold."

"Hmph."

England laughed. "Well, this is different. Usually I'm the one being careful around you, not the other way around."

"I just lost to you, England. If you think I'm going to be happy and coquettish in your presence, then you're going to be very disappointed."

"Luckily for me, I don't expect that from you. But I _do_ expect you to be civil."

France, being a bit of a sore loser, decided not to talk to England except in his native tongue. The _rosbif_ would just have to figure it out for himself. England quirked an eyebrow at him, smiling for some reason, and France glared right back. "_Quoi?_"

"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking things would be a little different."

"_Ah , oui?_"

"Yes. After all, the last time we were in circumstances similar to this, I believe you professed your love for me. Now you're behaving like a child being scolded by his mother."

France didn't rise to the bait, no matter how badly his mind was screaming, 'Punch the bastard! You can do it!'

No, he just turned his head away from England, who laughed at him again. "My, look at you! So quiet. It's almost like someone's replaced you with Canada. Tell me, how did you of all people ever raise someone to be that mild-mannered?"

"Shut up."

"Oh, talking now, are we? I must have hit a nerve."

"I said, shut up."

"Of course, your majesty, because you're _definitely_ in a position to be giving orders right now. You know, we're planning to exile your little emperor on an island in the middle of nowhere again. Your people aren't going to get him back this time, believe me."

France stood up, planning to march right out of the tent. "I'm not going to sit here and put up with your shit today, England."

"Hold it right there." England stepped in front of him, putting a hand on his chest, and France wondered, was he the only one who felt that almost-electric shock? It stopped him in his tracks. England, if he had felt anything, didn't show it, instead pushing on France's chest again. "Actually, I believe you are. Sit back down, France."

France did what he said, but only because he feared any more contact with England would make him lunge at the other man's throat, but out of lust instead of anger. And that wouldn't turn out well. No, he just sat back down, glaring at England and the way he paced around the tent, his flowing shirt only drawing attention to his lithe frame and his pants accentuating every curve of his hips and legs. It was driving him slowly insane, even more so because the silence pervading the tent was thick with tension.

Yes, France knew what England looked like naked, but they hadn't been together in many years, not since before America's revolution. They had never exchanged words during the act that weren't laden with anger or that didn't contain an insult. There was never even a hint of affection in what they had done together.

France wondered, what would it be like now? Would England be more receptive to his touches, or would he be just as hasty as ever, just pushing France against the nearest solid or semi-solid surface and using him purely for physical gratification? Would he continue to refuse to kiss France unless they were biting at each other's lips or wrestling for dominance, for control?

It was all that occupied his mind then, and every time his mind tried to wander somewhere else, every time he tried thinking about something, anything but that, his thoughts went straight back to England. It was almost painful, just sitting there and watching England pacing, his hips swaying a little with every step, the way the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed when he stretched his arms above his head and yawned. Whether or not he was doing it on purpose, France didn't know, but he knew that if it was a seduction technique, it was certainly working.

He wasn't sure how many torturously slow hours passed in that tent, but eventually he knew he had to get out of there, get away from England, unless he could throw the other man on the bed and have his way with him. So he peeked outside of the tent and saw that the sun was setting. It would be dark soon. Perfect.

He stood up. England stopped pacing, raising an eyebrow at him. He put his hands on his hips and looked at France with such authority that he felt tempted to push him down onto the table and take away all that dominating attitude. "And just where do you think you're going?" he asked.

"I have to take a piss. That's allowed, yes?"

"I'm coming with you."

"No, you are not."

"Yes, I am. Lord only knows you'd try to run away."

France sighed. "You know me too well."

They were fairly close to a forest, so he decided to walk into the trees for privacy. If he was going to take a piss, he wasn't going to do it where countless soldiers could stare at him. Really, he had a sense of decency, unlike many people – including England – would like to believe.

England followed close behind him, seemingly ready to grab France if he made a break for it. The soldiers watched them curiously, looking up from various fires around the camp and asking questions amongst themselves.

"Where're they going?" "What're they doing?" "Hey, I'm confused. Shouldn't he be with the other prisoners?"

France rolled his eyes, ignoring them all. He briefly considered trying to run away, just to have England jump on him and pin him to the ground, but decided it wasn't worth it, especially since England would probably literally drag him back through camp to the tent. Humiliation like that would certainly not be worth the few seconds of feeling England's body pressed against his own. So he just sighed to himself, tossing his hair over his shoulder flippantly.

England caught his wrist once they had entered the woods, sending another semi-electric shock through France. "Where are you going now?"

"I'd like a bit of privacy from your men, if you don't mind. I'm not as indecent as you'd like to believe."

England shrugged and dropped his wrist. "Fine. Lead the way."

France stopped once he thought they were a decent distance into the trees, glancing over his shoulder at England. "Ahem."

"May I help you?"

"Would it kill you to look away? I don't exactly enjoy being stared at while taking a piss."

"Suit yourself." England turned his head away to the side.

France smirked. Well, now he had England right where he wanted him. Far enough away from his men that he wouldn't show off if France made a break for it, but not so far away that he'd just beat the living shit out of France and leave him in the woods, too lazy to drag him back to camp.

So he laughed quietly, unbuttoning his pants and relieving himself quickly before doing them back up and taking a few steps forward, away from England. The other nation's head snapped back towards him. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

"What does it look like?"

"Don't be a fool. You know you can't escape from me here."

"That doesn't mean I can't try." France winked, taking another slow step away from England, hopping over a fallen tree branch. "Hey England… catch me if you can."

England sighed, shaking his head and following France slowly. "You're asking for it this time."

"Oh, I know. Come on, or are you too weak to keep up?" France wasn't running, just taking slow, teasingly dainty steps. He knew damn well he couldn't get away even if he tried, but it was just too _fun_ to taunt England like this. Especially once it got competitive.

It didn't take long before England got into that mindset, catching up to him and pushing him face-first against a tree. "You call that trying? My, the master of retreating has lost his touch."

One of England's hands rested on his shoulder, and France had to struggle to speak, holding onto the trunk of the tree he was leaning on, the light touch driving him mad. "That's because I let you win, _Angleterre_."

"Oh really?" England's free hand landed on his other shoulder, and France bit his lip.

"Mhm, really."

"Somehow I find that hard to believe." England stepped even closer, pressing himself right up against him, his hands slipping from France's shoulders to his waist. He buried his face into France's hair, who very nearly moaned out loud.

Since when was France this sensitive to England's touch? It wasn't at all normal for him. Usually, he was the one with the skill. He could have England flushed and panting within seconds of laying his hands on him. Oh, just thinking about that… France shivered. Something was very different. Was it because England was actually taking control for once, or was it because France had admitted to having feelings for him, no matter how strange and improbable it was?

England's groin suddenly pressed against his rear, and France moaned, pushing back against it. England was already half-hard. He suddenly wanted England so badly he could hardly bear it, and sighed happily when one of England's hands reached around and stroked the front of his pants, rubbing the prominent bulge there.

He hissed, "Ah… yesss…"

"My, someone's excited… did I do all this?" England's voice was in his ear, a low, sensual whisper, and France's eyelid's fluttered. England spun him around suddenly, grabbing his hips and kissing him, rutting their hips together slowly and letting France get a good feel of him. He pulled away, kissing France's neck. "I want you to get me off." England undid France's pants, slipping a hand inside and palming him. "If you do a good job, I'll give you a reward."

And why did those words only make France feel hotter? He should've been angry, punching England soundly in the face and running for it after giving him a black eye and a bloody nose, but no. Instead, he was kissing his way along England's jaw until he found his mouth again, pressing his lips pleadingly against England's. Just one more kiss…

England kissed him back, taking France's chin in his free hand and gently moving their lips together before pulling back and licking his lips. "Mm… I missed doing that."

The hand in France's pants gave him one last gentle, terribly arousing squeeze before leaving, joining England's other hand in undoing his own trousers. His erection sprang free, and France gripped it with both hands, twisting slowly from the tip down to the base and back up again, watching as England's eyes started to fog over with pleasure. Ah, now _that _was something he was very used to.

France wanted more, so he knelt in front of England, still pumping him slowly. He leaned in, kissing where England's thigh and pelvis met, then sucking the skin until he had left a small, purplish mark. He moved his head back, placing a kiss on the tip of England's erection.

One of England's hands slid into his hair, and France looked up to see him watching every move he made with half-lidded, smouldering eyes. He squeezed his legs together a bit, painfully reminded of his arousal by the way his cock twitched at that gaze, those glazed, green eyes watching everything he did so carefully.

But he ignored it as best as he could, opening his mouth to let his tongue circle around the head of England's erection, licking away a bead of precum and swallowing it. He took England's cock into his mouth, moaning a bit at the thick, salty, warm taste that filled his mouth so wonderfully. France, the great connoisseur of all things culinary, had to admit to himself that this was the best thing he had tasted in a long time.

England's head tipped back a bit, and he moaned quietly. "Ohh… yes. Just like that, France."

His name spilling from those lips in that lusty tone made France groan quietly. He moved his head further down, taking England to the very base and swallowing once, the hot, musky, stiff flesh making his mouth water an obscene amount.

He felt England's hand tighten in his hair, and the slight pulling only turned him on more, made him want to please England even more. He started moving his head back and forth, running his tongue over England's cock and humming quietly. France felt like he would explode if he didn't get relief for his own throbbing arousal soon, so he put a hand over his groin, just rubbing a bit to ease some of the desperation he had begun to feel.

France continued his attentions on England, pulling back a bit to wrap his other hand around the base of England's erection, moving it in time with his mouth. England moaned, hips thrusting forward into France's mouth.

"Ah! Oh, god…" England shivered a bit, his other hand twisting into France's hair and taking a firm grip. He thrust his hips slowly, shallowly into France's waiting mouth, essentially fucking his mouth very gently, groaning the whole time.

And France didn't stop him, instead bringing his hands up to grip England's hips, practically begging him for more. England gave him that, moving deeper, harder, pushing himself to the back of France's throat and pulling out almost completely, staring down at France. The Frenchman's eyes were closed, too busy concentrating on the pleasure he was getting just from having England's cock in his mouth, the taste of the precum filling his mouth, everything.

He could feel England's gaze on him, so he opened his eyes, looking up at him. England shivered then, one hand moving to stroke France's cheek. "By god, you're beautiful like this."

France didn't speak, couldn't speak, just hummed around the flesh in his mouth. He felt England pulling back, and expected another thrust deep into his mouth. He was surprised when England removed himself completely, brushing the head of his erection against France's lips, then wrapping a hand around himself.

"Open your mouth," England murmured, and France obliged, tilting his head up a bit and watching England's face. He was very close, France could tell by the way he scrunched up his eyebrows and the short, quick gasps of breath he took. England stroked himself quickly, bucking into his hand slightly and struggling to keep his eyes open.

England shuddered suddenly, moaning long and low, hot ropes of white spurting from his cock. Some of it landed it France's mouth, some of it ran down his chin, and some of it splattered onto his face. France swallowed what he could, licking the salty fluid off his lips.

England's hand slowed on his member and he sighed, looking down at France with a sated smile on his face. He pulled France to his feet, cupping his face in both hands and licking the remnants of cum from his cheeks. He kissed France gently, just softly pressing their lips together, and slipped a hand into France's pants.

"That was fabulous," he murmured huskily in France's ear, wrapping a hand around France's cock and pulling it out of his pants. "Simply amazing. How you do it is beyond me, but… by the looks of it, you enjoyed yourself quite a bit."

"Ngh…" France couldn't form words properly, and certainly not English words, the hand on his erection was just giving him too much pleasure. England knew just how to get him off, squeezing him just enough, teasing the head just right, running his fingers lightly along the shaft, finding all of France's good spots and using them to his advantage.

France wondered how many people had seen this side of England, the secretly lustful man who knew just how to please whoever he took to bed. Not as well as France, of course, but then again no one was as good as him. He gripped England's arm, tilting his head back a bit and unintentionally exposing his throat. France gasped when England licked from the base of his throat to his ear and then nipped his earlobe lightly.

England's other hand was resting on his hip, but moved around back, squeezing France's arse and rubbing teasingly. His fingers traced up and down the seam of France's pants, right in between his buttocks, making him moan and thrust into the hand that was still pumping his cock slowly.

He picked up the pace suddenly, placing warm, sucking kisses along France's collarbone and moving his hand faster, making France stiffen and groan quietly, putting a hand over his mouth. England pulled it away. "Don't do that. There's no one here but me."

"Ah! _Dieu_…" He was so close to the edge already, just a little bit more…

England suddenly pressed a finger hard against France's rear, pressing against his entrance through his pants, kissing him gently, and stroking him fiercely all at the same time. The combined sensations overwhelmed France, sending him over the edge, and he came in England's hand, moaning against his mouth as they kissed.

He felt immediately much calmer, almost soothed. England held up his hand, which was covered in France's release, and France licked it all off, not caring that it was his own. When he could look into England's eyes and see him slowly becoming aroused again, just from the way France sucked his fingers into his mouth, he really couldn't have cared less.

England lowered his hand, grabbing France by the front of his shirt and kissing him, his tongue mingling with France's in an intimate, tender way. He pulled back with a quiet gasp when France set his hands on England's waist.

"Go," he whispered, seemingly out of breath.

"Pardon?"

"You heard me. Go."

France tilted his head, keeping his hands on England's waist. "But aren't I your prisoner?"

"Not anymore. I'm letting you get away this time." England wouldn't meet his gaze, but France just shrugged.

"Suit yourself, _Angleterre._" He dropped his hands and tucked himself back into his pants, then pushed his hair out of his face. He kissed England lightly on both cheeks before turning away. "Until we meet again, _mon amour._"

"Mm." England seemed lost in thought for some reason, and France smirked, blowing a kiss over his shoulder at the other nation, who blushed. He heard England clear his throat and stopped walking for a second.

"_Oui?_"

"It's just… never mind." England shook his head. "It seems like so much had changed, but at the same time, nothing has."

France nodded. "And such is life."

"Yes." England didn't say any more, so France turned away again, walking off into the woods, back towards his home. England sighed behind him, calling out, "I hate that I love you, France."

France just smiled to himself, not bothering to look back this time. He had nothing to say, after all, he had already confronted his feelings towards England. But why was it that England always chose to be so honest with himself whenever France was leaving? Why couldn't he just tell it to France's face? It didn't seem to be a matter of finding the courage to do so, it seemed to be more of a willpower _not_ to do so.

France vowed then and there to someday have England talk with him face-to-face about this. Someday, things would be different. After all, you can't truly love someone until you admit it to yourself, and England didn't seem ready to do that yet. But someday, he would be. Someday, things would change enough that they would have to face each other about this.

Someday… it could take decades, maybe even centuries, but that day would come. Because, in the end, things would change.

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Any feedback is appreciated._


	3. Chapter 3

_The third and final installation of this story is here. A big thank-you to everyone who has read and reviewed!_

* * *

Summer, 1945.

It was a warm, sunny afternoon, the birds chirping in the trees and a gentle breeze filtering in through the open windows of the conference room where England, France, America, Russia, and Canada (though no one really noticed he was there) were all meeting to discuss the future of Europe as a whole.

"Well, now that it's been decided what to do with Germany, I propose we adjourn this meeting for the day. You're all dismissed, but I expect to see you all here tomorrow morning. _On time,_ by the way." England was erasing what he had written on the chalkboard, but he cast a dark glance at America over his shoulder.

The younger nation seemed unfazed by England's impressive death glare, just shrugging and crossing his arms behind his head. "Whatever, man. The meeting doesn't start until I get here, and you know it."

England rolled his eyes. "Keep telling yourself that. France, you're hosting, how about you get your arse out of that chair and do a little work for once?"

France sighed in mock exasperation and put his hands up defensively. "Why must you take your anger out on me, _Angleterre?_ You know I'm on your side in this matter."

"Then prove it, you lazy bastard." England tossed a chalkboard eraser at his head, and France gasped.

"You dare try to dirty my beautiful hair? _Ah non, _I will not stand for that!"

America, who was still lounging in his chair, snickered. "Uh, you're not doing any standing right now."

"It's a figure of speech, you idiot!" England and France said it at the same time, then glared at each other. They heard a quiet sigh of relief, and realized it had come from Canada. The young man was smiling a bit.

"Russia just left. We can all breathe a bit easier now, eh?"

"Totally! Man, that guy… half the time, I can't tell whose side he's on!" America, still in his seat, reached across the tabletop to tap Canada on the forehead. "When did you get here, anyways?"

"I've been here the whole time."

"Seriously? I just noticed."

"Of course you did." Canada just sighed, holding his polar bear a little tighter than usual and muttering, "Maybe if you were a bit less loud, _some_ of us would be able to get a word in edgewise, you know."

"Did you say something?"

"Oh no, nothing."

France shook his head and stood up, carrying the chalkboard eraser back to England. "I believe this is yours."

"No, it's yours. I just threw it at you because I could."

"Ah, I see. You must admit, these French erasers are so much more aerodynamic than your English ones."

"Hmph." England crossed his arms, trying not to smile, got chalk dust on himself and rolled his eyes, trying to brush it off subtly.

America and Canada were still talking, although their conversation was rather one-sided, as America kept interrupting Canada. "So, where're you planning to go for dinner?"

"Well, I learned about this nice little café just down the road from my hotel and I thought-"

"Cool. I think I'll go out for pizza. French people make pizza, right?"

"Well, you would think so, I mean-"

"Yeah, they probably do. Hey, are you okay? You're looking a little pink."

"Oh, it's nothing. I'm just a little annoyed that you won't shut up."

"What was that?"

"I didn't say anything!"

"Okay then. Whatever."

England chuckled, shaking his head. "For two countries that claim to get along so well, they seem to be more than a little bit conflicting. Honestly, they could hardly be more different."

"Oh, I don't know about that."

"What do you mean?"

"Just look at you and me."

England shrugged. "Well, that's different. We've known each other much longer. These two still have quite a few centuries to catch up on."

"True, very true." France set the eraser down beside the chalkboard and cast a glance at the two younger nations. "They've grown up well, don't you think?"

"All things considered, I suppose so. But really, they did have an excellent older brother to help them out." England smirked, and France knew he was baiting him.

"Hey now, you can't take all the credit for Canada."

"Oh, I know. But thank goodness I was there to turn him into a proper gentleman!"

"You mean thank goodness you were there to teach him to say 'bugger' and have horrible taste in food and clothing."

England glared at France. "Well, at least I didn't teach him to let his people go on strike all the time. And it's not my fault if he picked up a few habits from me."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

France sighed. "Well, I must admit he has turned out much better than I expected. A little quiet, yes, but that's just his nature."

England nodded. "Just as it's America's nature to be obnoxiously loud."

They both rolled their eyes as America proved their point by yelling over Canada, apparently unaware that he was doing so. The two older nations just shook their heads and sighed at the same time. "Some things never change."

"Very true." France crossed his arms and leaned back, resting his back against the chalkboard. "But then again, some things change more than you'd expect."

"Mm." England mimicked his posture, but whether or not it was intentional, France couldn't tell. "I know exactly what you mean."

The two of them agreeing on so much was rather unusual, so France stole a quick glance at England's face. He was just sort of staring off into space, past America and Canada and out the window. He was smiling a bit, and France quickly snapped his eyes away, just in case England decided to pay attention to the world around him again.

It was a good thing he did, because England cleared his throat, turning his gaze onto France. "You know," he began rather nervously, "There's something I've been meaning to tell you for a while now. It's just that-"

"England, dude!" America interrupted him, putting an arm around his shoulders. "We've gotta talk about what you owe me. Seriously, my boss has been nagging me so much about it…"

England glared at America, trying unsuccessfully to pry the other nation's arm off of him. "America, can't you see that I'm busy?"

"You're just yakking with France, I don't see what the big deal is."

France rolled his eyes. "Of course you don't, you silly boy. Now please, leave us adults to talk."

"Hey! Don't be so patronizing. You owe me lots too, France, so unless you want to talk about that when I'm done with England…"

France swallowed, then shot an apologetic glance at England. "Euh… no thank you."

"Didn't think so. C'mon, England!" America dragged England out of the room, much to the other nation's horror, but France managed to catch his hand at the last second.

"Come to my house tonight after dinner, if you like. We can talk then."

England opened his mouth to say something, but America spoke over him. "See you tomorrow, France! Oh yeah, you too, Canada."

Canada sighed and rolled his eyes when they were gone. "Why does no one ever notice me?"

"It's because you're too quiet, _petit_. If you spoke up a little more, I'm sure everyone would pay attention to you." France patted him on the shoulder and turned around to finish cleaning the chalkboard. "I have to stay to clean up and prepare for tomorrow's meeting. If you're staying, would you like some coffee?"

Canada shook his head, standing up. "No, I was just about to go. I mean, I wanted to ask England about something, but then America… well, I'll catch him tomorrow."

"_A demain_, Canada."

"See you tomorrow, France." As he was leaving, he paused and took a step back into the room. "You've got chalk on your back, by the way. Thought you ought to know."

France sighed, taking off his jacket, about to brush it off when he noticed that the white dust was actually writing, picked up from where he had leaned against the chalkboard. Backwards writing, of course, but it still spelled England's name. He paused, shaking his head and smiling a little before cleaning it off and wiping down the chalkboard completely.

He hoped England would come see him that night.

That evening, after France had changed out of his more formal clothes he wore to the meeting and cooked himself a nice dinner, he was relaxing on his back porch and enjoying an after-meal glass of wine. He felt uncharacteristically nervous. Would England actually show up? Had he even heard what France had said? He breathed in deeply, trying to relax a bit.

The air was warm, a comfortably cool breeze keeping it from being unpleasantly still. France unbuttoned an extra button on his shirt, casting a glance around his garden. All the lilies and roses were doing beautifully that summer, sending up gentle waves of perfumed air whenever the wind ruffled their blossoms.

The sun wasn't quite yet setting, but the shadows were long and the light was a mellow, almost golden colour. France sighed, leaning back in his chair a bit and setting his wine on the table. He closed his eyes, feeling increasingly comfortable and drowsy. Maybe just a short nap while he waited for England…

He heard footsteps nearby and cracked an eye open, finding England in his backyard with one foot on the stairs to the porch and the other still in the grass. France sat up suddenly, pleasantly surprised. England hesitated a bit at the bottom of the stairs, looking rather unsure of himself.

"I… knocked on the front door, but nobody answered. I thought I'd check out back." France didn't reply, just blinking a little dazedly at England, and the other man turned a light shade of pink. "If this is a bad time, I can always come back later." He made to turn around, but France remembered how to speak just then.

"Wait, England!" He motioned for him to come closer. "Come here."

England looked quite relieved, and walked up the stairs. "All right." He sat down next to France, folding his hands and placing them in his lap. He hadn't changed his clothing since the meeting, still wearing his suit and tie. "So."

"So?"

"Er… thank you for inviting me here."

France smiled. "No need to be so formal, _mon cher_. I was under the impression that you wanted to say something earlier, but America interrupted you before you could get it out."

"Yes, well…" England cleared his throat a bit. "It's rather complicated, I think you'll find."

"I'm listening."

"I still have to think on it a bit." England looked a little embarrassed. "I'm afraid America's yammering has sapped most of my brain power for the day."

France shrugged. "Take your time. We have all night." He glanced over his shoulder at the house. "Would you like some tea?"

"Er… sure, that'd be great."

"I'll go put the kettle on."

When he returned, England was staring up and the sky and resting his hands on the table, twiddling his thumbs. France sat back down, tempted to put one of his hands over England's. But he resisted, instead brushing his hair out of his eyes and smiling at England. "I'm glad you came."

"Yes, well… I almost didn't. I thought maybe you were just joking." England stopped twiddling his thumbs, placing his clasped hands in his lap. "It wouldn't be the first time you've done something like that."

"Hey now, that was years ago!"

"Some things never change."

"Yes, but some things do."

"_You_ don't. You haven't changed in practically all the time I've known you."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really." France smirked at that, and England pointed a finger accusingly at him. "See? You've always been an arrogant, self-centered bastard!"

"And you've always been a temperamental, overly-aggressive ass!"

They glared at each other for a moment before shaking their heads and laughing. England sighed. "At least we still argue the same way."

"Oh, I have a feeling we'll have to change that as well. We need to set a good example for the rest of the world, that Europe is a peace-loving, friendly continent."

England rolled his eyes. "God, no. We'll all have to put on fake smiles and pose for pictures if we do that."

"Such is life. Now that America's out of his stupid isolationist phase, he'll be taking quite a few cues from us on how to behave… or so I hope."

"I hope not. The world doesn't need another Spain or Italy… or, god forbid, another France."

France just laughed and shook his head. "He'd make a terribly second-rate France, I'm afraid." He heard a whistling from the house and stood up. "Kettle's boiling."

"You actually have one that whistles?"

"But of course! You're not the only nation who drinks tea, you know."

"Of course I know that. I'm just curious. You of all people should be trying to avoid anything vaguely English."

France set some tea to steep and brought it outside with two teacups. "Well, you know what they say. The French and the English love to hate each other." France sat down. He half expected England to reply, but when the other nation just coughed into his fist a couple times and stared at the teapot, he shrugged, picked up his wine glass, and downed the rest of the contents in one gulp. He set it back down and raised an eyebrow at England, who looked entirely unfazed.

"You know," England said, "Sometimes I'm still not entirely sure why we've been fighting on the same side of things lately."

"It's because you've finally come to see that I truly am perfect," France teased, and England rolled his eyes.

"If you're perfect, then I'm the princess of Canada."

"A pleasure to meet you, your majesty."

England snorted and shook his head. "Really?"

"Yes, really." France was about to pour the tea when England suddenly flailed his arms around.

"Wait! It hasn't steeped for nearly long enough!"

"But it'll get cold just sitting-"

"No it won't! Just be patient, for heaven's sake!"

"_You_ telling _me_ to be patient? That's new."

"Do shut up. Your arrogance is something I can only bear for so long."

"You wound me, England."

"You'll get over it." They bickered like that for quite some time, over tea that England eventually let France pour. When the sky finally darkened enough that they could barely see each other's faces, England looked up at the sky. "It's getting quite dark out."

"So it is. I would suggest you get back to your hotel soon, unless you want to go back in total darkness. There aren't many streetlights in this part of town, I'm afraid." France stood to clear away their dishes, and when he went to pick up England's teacup, the other nation put a hand over his.

"Wait."

France paused. Was this what he had been waiting and hoping for all evening? He let England take his hand off the cup completely and just stood there, not at all sure of what to say or do.

England stood up as well, dropping France's hand. "I've been… well, since everything's just been changing so much lately, I thought I'd say this while it still counts. I've been trying to avoid thinking about it for so long, let alone finding a way to say it, but at the same time, I've been trying to find a way to say it." He sighed. "It's high time I tell you this, though. France, I love you. I've been in love with you for so long that I can't even remember when I started hating you for it."

France just smiled. "I know. And you already know it, but I love you too."

England nodded. They stood there, not moving, until France laughed quietly. England frowned and tilted his head. "What is it?"

"Oh, nothing. It's just… you're not planning to kiss me?"

"Not really, no." England smirked at him, just a little tauntingly. Well, France wasn't going to stand for that. He took one of England's hands and pulled him close so their chests were pressed together.

"Why won't you kiss me, _mon cheri?_" His other hand rested in the small of England's back, and the other nation blushed a bit.

"No reason." England leaned in, pressing their lips together gently. It was soft, tender, hesitant, and totally unlike what France was expecting. It was more like a chaste kiss shared by two lovers at the beginning of a relationship than the kind of kiss between two men who had shared a love-hate relationship for centuries. It was far from the first kiss for them, but it felt like the first.

They broke apart, leaning their foreheads together. "I wonder," England whispered, "How did it take us so long to get to this point?"

"We're both too stubborn for our own good, _mon ange_."

England laughed a little. "I suppose that's true."

France kissed him again, just as gently as the first time. It didn't stay sweet for long, though, quickly turning into a desperate melding of their lips, tongues exploring each other's mouths and battling playfully. France had to admit to himself that it was making him rather hot and bothered, and he was hoping for more.

England's hand tangled in his hair, tilting France's head slightly, and he coaxed France's tongue into his mouth with a soft groan. France's hand slid from the small of England's back to rest on his arse, squeezing lightly. France smirked at how he stiffened at first and then leaned into his touch.

They were still holding hands, but they dropped each other's hands at the same time to pull each other even closer, pulling away from the kiss to gasp when their groins pressed together lightly. England's eyes were half-lidded, his cheeks were flushed, and he took deep breaths through his already kiss-swollen lips. France knew he must have looked similar.

He stroked the edge of England's cheek, running his fingers down along the other nation's jaw. "Would you like to spend the night here with me? I can't promise you'll get much sleep, but I can guarantee you it will be _much_ more enjoyable than going back to your hotel."

England caught France's hand and pressed a series of kisses on each of his knuckles. "I think I would much prefer to share a bed with you." He shot France a sultry glance, and the other nation felt his breath catch in his throat for a moment.

"You've learned quite a bit, _Angleterre_," he murmured, letting just a bit of the lust he felt shine through his eyes. England lowered his eyelids a little, putting his arms around France's neck.

"I've still got a lot to learn. Would you care to teach me?"

"I would _love_ to."

France put an arm around England's waist, pulling him towards the house. Once they were inside, he cupped England's arse with both hands, scooping him up off the ground and kissing him. England's legs wrapped around his waist, holding himself close to France. He slid his hands into France's hair as they kissed, letting France's tongue into his mouth.

France's bedroom was mercifully close, and he soon pushed the door open, keeping their lips connected, lay England on the bed, and crawled over him. France stripped England of his suit jacket, tossing it somewhere on the floor. He nipped at England's lower lip, loosening the other nation's tie and pulling back reluctantly so he could slip it over England's head. It joined the jacket on the floor.

He kicked off his shoes, and England struggled to remove his. France waited until he had thrown them off the bed before latching onto England's neck, nipping him lightly and then sucking the skin until he had left a large, purplish mark. England moaned softly, his hands gripping France's shoulders, and when France pulled away they looked into each other's lust-darkened eyes.

France took a shaky breath. "If you want me to stop, say so now. I don't think I'll be able to hold back much longer."

England's hands gripped the front of France's shirt, twisting into the fabric, and he leaned in close to France, so close that France could feel his breath against his cheek. "If you stop, I'll kill you."

That was all the encouragement France needed, and he dove back for England's lips, unbuttoning the other nation's shirt and laughing to himself when England struggled to take it off, which he was reprimanded for by a tug of his hair. That, however, didn't hurt nearly as much as it spurred him on, and he moaned against England's lips. He could practically feel England rolling his eyes at that, but then the buttons on his shirt were being undone by surprisingly nimble fingers, and England was rolling them over so he was straddling France.

"I'd forgotten you actually _like_ having your hair pulled sometimes, you strange person." He ground his hips downwards, rubbing himself against France and smirking when the Frenchman's hands flew to his hips. "Eager, are we?"

"You're one to talk." France popped the button on England's trousers, undoing the zipper and slipping his hand inside. England thrust forward into France's hand with a quiet groan.

"I didn't mention this earlier, but if you tease me tonight, I'll kill you."

France laughed quietly, unbuttoning his own pants with his free hand and slipping them off. "Lucky for you, I'm not in much of a teasing mood tonight."

"Good." England's hands slid up and down France's chest, dipping into the waistband of his underwear before moving back up. "Now, if you'll get these stupid things out of the way, we can get to some real fun."

France lifted England up, sliding his pants and underwear off and kicking them off the bed and onto the floor. England worked on getting his own off, and when they were both naked, pressing themselves together and running their hands over each other's bodies, England leaned down to whisper in France's ear, pinching the Frenchman's nipples at the same time, "Get your stuff. Don't make me wait."

France, while he hadn't been expecting something like this to happen, was still prepared for such events. He wiggled out from under England and pulled a jar out of his bedside table, raising an eyebrow at England. "And how do you want to do this?"

"Get back over here and I'll show you." England pushed him flat on the bed and climbed over him again, rubbing his ass teasingly against France's erection. "I'm sure this is enough for you to figure that out."

"I think so too." France slicked up a couple of his fingers and reached around England. The Englishman leaned forward slightly, putting his hands on France's chest and giving France better access to his entrance. France ran his finger over the small ring of muscle a few times, just to see England bite his lip and move his hips back against France's finger.

"Hurry up already, dammit." His voice was breathy, husky, and France had to smile.

"Impatient, are we?"

"You… you smug bastard."

France smirked, plunging his finger inside and watching as England's eyes unfocused. He waited only a second before carefully pumping his finger in and out, sliding another digit in after a quiet plea from England only seconds later. He found England's prostate almost right away, knowing exactly where to look for it. England started rocking his hips back, taking France's fingers in deeper and moaning softly, and France felt his cock twitch at the sounds spilling from England's lips. His eyes wanted to slip shut, but he forced them open, wanting to watch England's face through this.

He was starting to feel a kind of burning need to be inside England, an urge that he knew wouldn't be satisfied until he had marked the other man as his inside and out. But he waited, wanting England to be completely ready for him. France added another finger, spreading the digits apart and stretching England carefully. After so many years of this, he knew exactly how much time England would need before he was fully ready.

This time, however, England seemed rather hasty, whispering quiet pleas to France. His pride kept him from just full-on begging, but he was still groaning softly, "Please, just… hurry up. France, please… I'm ready."

"Just a moment, _mon amour_." France pulled out his fingers and slicked himself up, his hips bucking in surprise and pleasure when England's hand wrapped around him and guided him to his entrance. Their eyes met, and England bit his lip, carefully lowering himself onto France and shaking a bit at the stretch. France couldn't help it anymore, and his eyes slipped shut as inch after inch was engulfed by England, holding himself back from just thrusting up and making England take everything at once.

No, he waited, letting England sink further and further down, only stopping when all of France was inside of him. They both sighed contentedly at that, and England paused for a moment, his hands pressing into France's chest to steady himself. France opened his eyes again to look at him. England trembled a little, his face flushed and his cock standing straight up.

France stroked his thigh lightly and whispered, "_Angleterre_…"

"Ngh… I just need…" England pushed down on France's chest, lifting himself and then letting himself slip back down, crying out and arching his back in pleasure. "Ahn! Oh, god…"

France let his hands travel to England's hips, one of them slipping forward to squeeze and pump England's cock. The Englishman moaned shakily, sliding up and down France's member in a steady rhythm, not so slowly as to make them both obscenely desperate, but not so fast as to force them to the edge too quickly.

He was so warm, so tight, so beautiful, so… perfect. France sat up, pressing his chest against England's and kissing him, their tongues mingling together gently, so different from how they usually kissed. It wasn't a fight for dominance this time, it was a willing surrender on both sides, a ceasefire if just for that night. France's hands travelled up to England's waist, running up and down his sides gently.

England's hands tangled in France's hair again, tugging slightly, and he couldn't hold back any longer. He thrust up as England moved down, intensifying the pleasure they both felt, bringing them closer to that ecstasy they both needed desperately. England broke away from the kiss to breathe, his breath catching in his throat as he continued to ride France, getting him as deep as possible and pulling back, so far that France very nearly slipped out, before plunging back down again and taking him to the hilt.

He was clenching around France, so tight that the Frenchman could hardly stand it, and moaning softly into France's ear with every move he made. "France, you… hnng…"

"_Angleterre_, I don't think I can—ah!"

"I know. Me either. Oh, oh _god_…" England moved faster, taking France even harder, and the other nation thrust up into him just as fast, feeling his climax draw close.

England froze suddenly, crying out and pulling France's face to his chest. He tightened immensely, almost painfully, around France, and the feeling washed over France like a tidal wave of pleasure. He thrust up once more into England and let go, feeling England come in between them in long, hot bursts.

France shook with pleasure, emptying himself into England, filling him with everything he had, his come shooting deeper into England than his cock could reach, his hands squeezing England's hips so tightly he feared he might have left bruises. The pleasure washed over his brain and he whispered, "_Dieu… je n'en peux plus._"

But before any post-coital bliss could take over, he leaned his head into England's neck, sucking on his collarbone and leaving a hickey on the opposite side of the one he had made earlier. England moaned shakily, bringing France's face up and kissing him gently, rocking slowly on France's softening cock a few more times, milking him of anything he had left before letting it slip out. He pushed France down onto the bed, burying his face in France's neck with a happy, tired sigh.

France wrapped his arms around him and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. England mumbled something he couldn't quite make out and France laughed quietly, walking his fingers up and down the notches in England's spine. The Englishman lifted his head up for a moment.

"I…"

"Shh." France put a finger over England's lips. "You don't need to say anything."

England nodded and flopped back down on top of him. France realized that neither of them could move, even if they wanted to, and he smiled to himself. He had forgotten what it was like to share a bed with someone he truly loved, the amazing feeling that came from it, the mind-numbing pleasure. He wriggled under the blankets, pulling them over England as well and kissing him on the cheek.

"_Je t'aime, mon ange_."

"Mm… love you too."

England hadn't ever said it before that night, but somehow it felt like he'd been saying it for centuries. He lifted his head up, kissing France tenderly, and France felt well and truly happy. So much had changed over the years, but at the same time, not much had changed. As they lay there together, wrapped in the comfort of each other's arms, France had a feeling that no matter how much the world around them would change, they would stay the same as always.

This rivalry, this love, it wouldn't change. And he was happy with that. In the end, things always turned out for the best between the two of them, and this was no exception.

* * *

_Translations: A demain—see you tomorrow. Mon ange—my angel. Mon amour—my love. Je t'aime—I love you._

_Thank you for reading! Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated._


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